Of the Earth and the Sea
by Naivim
Summary: Forced into exile, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth seeks refuge in the land of Rohan under a false name. In there, she faces her own fears and a gift that threatens to consume her, as well as someone as mysterious as herself.
1. Chapter 1: Thundering Earth

The sound of hooves thundered through the air. She thought she might hear them before she could see them.

Decidedly, she halted her mare. A sand-colored steed, the color of the shores of her homeland, a color she would no longer know. A self-imposed exile. _The worst of its kind_ , she thought, _although could it truly be worse than any other?_

She waited for the riders to approach. Her hesitation was only evident to herself. She knew they had already seen her. They must have. These were masters of these plains, after all. Their armor gleamed against the sun in shades of green and gold. No other banner carried those colors. These were the horsemasters of Rohan.

She left her bow resting on her back, swallowed by her hair. She was careful not to show any sign of threat. Whatever diplomatic talent she carried in her blood, she would need now. Every ounce of it.

The riders were closer now. There must have been a score of them. They were approaching fast. Perhaps they could hear her now over the sound of their horses' hooves. She shouted, hopeful that her voice would not betray the fear simmering inside her.

"Riders of Rohan! I come in peace and seek your aid."

If the men heard her, they made no sign of it.

Skillfully, they rode towards and past her and then surrounded her in such a way that barred any attempts of escape. She felt their gaze burning in her skin, scanning her, her possessions, and her steed. The mare took a step backward to the dismay of her rider. If her mare's courage failed now, what would happen to her own?

She knew what they were wondering. Who could this woman be, alone, unguarded, and looking so foreign from their own? What aid could she seek? If she was distressed she did not seem so. Is this the form the enemy's spies now take? The figure of a lone woman? She did not need to read their minds to know their thoughts. They were judging her; an opportunity to show the right qualities for them to judge.

She steadied her voice and repeated, "I come in peace and I am alone. I am armed only for my own defense. I seek the aid of the Third Marshal of the Mark of Rohan. Is he among you?". She scanned their helmeted faces, but could not see any defining features. They waited in silence, watching her with the stillness of the mountains far away.

At length, one of the riders rode towards her and removed his helmet. His features showed strength yet were full of youth. He seemed weary, but the kind of weariness that riddles the mind more than the body. His voice was clear and stern but gentle when he spoke. "Who are you and what business do you have in the Mark?"

"My lord, I am afraid I cannot answer your questions. I shall only speak to the Third Marshal. These lands belong to the Eastfold of Rohan, do they not? If so, you must be his Riders. You must allow me an audience with him." She could not chance to tell them a name, not even a false one. At all costs she must secure a conversation with the marshal, and the wrong identity might deprive her of just that.

She looked around them to seek a sign of consent but behind their helmets their thoughts were simply a guess.

The man spoke again, raising his tone, "If you come in peace, then give us your name. Only spies hide their purpose."

"I am no spy. I have stated my purpose: I seek an audience with the Third Marshal. To you, I will say no more. You may take my weapon and my possessions. You may take charge of my horse. You may bind and blindfold me if it will make your decision any easier. But you will take me to your lord or leave me here to find him on my own. Either way, I will speak to him." She straightened atop her mare, pushing away thoughts that were wondering about the origin of her boldness. She then released her bow, quiver, and saddlebag to the ground and dared stare into the commander's eyes without fear, using strength she did not know she had in her.

After seconds that felt like minutes, the man commanded another rider in their own language, who in turn promptly dismounted and took hold of her possessions. She could hear him looking through her bag but she knew he would find nothing other than food, water, a cloak, and a satchel of healing herbs. Her key possession, a simple letter, she held on her person, in the pockets of her riding vest.

She heard the men speak in their language, an act that both frustrated and intimidated her. The tone alone suggested orders to be followed. The riders began to move again, and she found herself riding encircled by them, trying to match their speed and grace. She should have expected they would ride in a way that would prevent her from escaping. Yet there was an odd sense of safety, being surrounded by these seasoned riders speaking a language deep as the earth itself.

She did not speak more until they reached their destination. They arrived sooner than she had expected, but she was glad. After a long journey, she was yearning for rest, even under an open, velvet sky.

They reached what could not be described as anything but a war camp. Tents were erected, fires were lit, and everywhere horses, and weapons, and men were scattered, engrossed in one task or another. Upon reaching the camp the riders came to a stop and dismounted. She followed their example, wondering if they would meet her demands or if they were readying themselves to take her prisoner. As she started to walk, holding the reins of her sand mare, she was ordered to stop and wait by the man who commanded the riding party. She watched him disappear through the crowd of warriors until she spotted him talking to another man. Together, they made their way through the camp towards her and she felt all bravery in her fade away with each one of the warrior's confident strides. They gave her no chance to take the reins of conversation to give herself a negotiating advantage.

"Who are you and why have you come here?" His voice stilled her will and almost made her give her secrets away. The voice belonged to a man whose armor was richer, and his stature greater than most of his men. He was clearly their commander. She gave herself a moment to look at his face. Yes, it was him. She wondered if he would recognize her but the thought filled her with nerves. It had been nearly three months since she first and last gazed upon him. But he had not seen her face then, she did not think. It was her cousin, not her, with whom he dealt the two days they stayed in his hall.

"Are you the Lord of the Eastfold? The Third Marshal of Rohan?" She pretended not to know the answer. Yet even without their previous encounter, it was evident this man was a commanding lord.

"Aye." He stated simply, but impatiently, while staring at her.

"Lord Marshal, I plead for your aid. If we could speak privately, I will explain my purpose here." She debated between bowing her head or keep matching his stare, but the long moments of her debate made the decision for her. He studied her, watching her demeanor as much as her appearance. She looked very different from the women of Rohan. Her hair did not shine with the brilliance of the sun as the golden heads of Rohirric maidens did. There was no land or grass in the color of her eyes, but instead there was a vast sea, endless and chilling. She was tall, but it seemed to him that shieldmaidens were taller than her. But the greatest difference was in her boldness. Not once had she shown any sign of reverence to one of Rohan's High Lords, and he thought that with every word she uttered, she stood straighter. Moreover, she held his gaze with a silent fierceness that revealed determination without compare.

At length, he nodded and motioned for her to follow him. He led her to his tent. Inside was a small desk and chairs carved of rich, dark wood. She looked around, noting the distinct practicality of the furnishings of the tent and the clear lack of riches, but the sound of his voice brought her back to her present purpose.

"We are speaking privately. Why are you here?" He asked, again, impatiently.

For all of her plans she had not planned how this particular conversation might go. She tried to gather her thoughts quickly and thought it best to start without preamble.

"I am a long way from home, but I cannot go back. I am in danger, or else I have reason to think I will be. Because of this I have needed to exile myself from my home and hide my identity. Only in secrecy may I stay safe. Only one person knows I have come to seek you. You know him: Lord Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor. He sends you this letter to explain what I cannot." At the mention of Lord Boromir's name, his expression turned from impatience to curiosity. He took the letter and turned it around. It bore the seal of Gondor on its back. He tore it open and read it aloud.

"Lord Éomer, I thank you for your hospitality during my travels through Rohan. I have found what I was seeking in Imladris, but it seems I have now more cares than I did before. One of them is the lady that carries this letter. For reasons that are too sensitive to pen, she must remain hidden under a false name. I intend for her to ride with me to Gondor but at the moment it is not safe for her. I understand that there is no reason why you should honor me with this favor, but I must ask it of you regardless. Keep the lady safe until I am able to return for her. We have agreed to meet at Edoras at the coming of spring. I ask that you keep her safe and hidden until then. Do this and Gondor will be indebted to you, as shall I, Boromir of Gondor."

"What sensitive reasons are forcing you to hide?" He asked, putting the letter down on the desk. He leaned on the table and crossed his arms across his chest, expressing his thoughts through his demeanor.

"My lord, I cannot-" She lowered her gaze and shook her head slightly. This was hopeless.

"You expect me to protect you not knowing from what?" He demanded, as if he were taking advantage of her sign of defeat. She did not give him another chance.

"I expected nothing, but I hoped for a chance at safety." She met his gaze again and defiantly held it.

"What is your name?" He asked her.

Her name was Lothíriel. Only daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Lady of the Sea. But the less he knew the easier this would be.

"My safety depends on secrecy. I cannot tell you my name." She stated as calmly as she could, and searched in his dark eyes for a reaction.

"You will not tell me your name? So when I ask my Riders to give their lives for yours, you will not grace them with the name of the one for whom they sacrificed everything?" She had not considered this. Thinking of warriors dying for her was an impending truth she did not want to admit was approaching. His words were like a stab to her stomach.

"I will need a false name under which to live. Only you, my lord, need to know it is not my true self." She felt shame at the coldness with which her voice left her mouth.

"What name is that?"

"Sílrien, my lord."

 _Sílrien. A Sindarin name._ He wondered what it meant in the tongue of the elves. Even more, he wondered if she was the lady who traveled with Lord Boromir at the beginning of autumn, when he welcomed them into his hall. He had only spoken to her briefly, at night, on the courtyard of his hall which overlooks the city of Aldburg. He tried to compare the voice of that maiden to this mysterious lady, but it was no use. Long nights had come and gone between then and now, and the darkness of that night had shielded her from him. But what he wondered most was what her real name was, and from what she was running so desperately.

When his thoughts robbed him of timely words, she continued, "Sílrien, the daughter of a Gondorian diplomat. Hidden until her father deems it safe to return home, as he negotiates dangerous treaties with tribes from Umbar and Harad. The less details offered, the better."

"The less details offered, the more people will wonder," He considered. She did not know whether he was referring to himself or to his people.

"I will be prepared to answer questions about myself. I do not want to ask more of you than I already have, my lord."

He considered her for a moment, then traced his fingers around Boromir's letter once more. "Boromir is a good man and a good warrior. I will not dishonor him by turning you away." He glanced at her doubtfully, "but I must consider the implications of my decision."

"I understand, Lord Marshal." She bowed her head to him. _Such an enigma_ , he thought. _Where is the defiance of moments ago? Did it shed away to reveal weakness or nobility?_

"You must be hungry and weary. Let us find you some food." He allowed her to exit the tent first, after which she immediately felt the judging and wondering gaze of the riders. A gaze directed at her. _It is reasonable to be cautious around foreigners_ , she reasoned to herself in hopes of helping ease the burden of the intimidating stares. Éomer led her to one of the roaring fires where bowls of stew and pieces of bread were being handed and taken in a rhythmic fashion. He motioned for her to sit near the fire, near many pairs of eyes stealing glances at the new guest. She noticed there was a female among them, dressed in mail armor; she then realized she was not the only female warrior around. This made her feel more away from home than she had until now. She was in a strange land, and to them she was strange herself. Her exile would not be easy.

An extended hand interrupted her thoughts. Éomer was handing her a bowl of steaming stew. She noticed she was hungry when the aroma of spices circulated around her. She reached out with both hands to take the bowl when her fingers brushed against his.

First, her mind emptied.

Then she saw with perfect clarity a tall man in mail and leather armor. It was golden and green, but riddled with blood black as night. A thundering voice commanded in a strange tongue, strange as the surroundings themselves. One word she heard clearly among the tones of the earthy tongue: "Éothain!".

It was over in a second yet it felt like she had _seen_ more than a second.

Her expression changed and she seemed lost and disoriented. He thought he felt her fingers shake.

"Sílrien? Are you alright?" He spoke, then sought a place to sit near the fire. His voice travelled through her and brought her back to reality. She was afraid but she could not explain why. She tore her gaze from nothingness and forced it on him. The sight of him wearing unbloodied armor reassured her. She made no reply and began eating her meal. Next to her, he did the same. But where in her mind lay fear and uncertainty, in his thirsted a burning curiosity he vowed to quench.


	2. Chapter 2: Iron and Blood

In the distance, white waves broke wildly against the cliffs of her ancestral home. The sea was untamed, even menacing; yet to her, it was calming. She delighted in the crash of each wave. It was enchanting. Lothíriel sat on the sand, wet by the endless caress of the sea waters. She felt herself sink in it every time a wave dissipated at her feet. She loved that feeling. It was as if she was becoming one with the shore.

Incessantly, she wondered if she could sail as far as the horizon reached. She wondered if she would be missed, if she did. She wondered if she would spend her life wondering instead of living.

The sun was falling. A golden light was sparkling in the ocean and the skies above were dancing in hues of blue and rose. It was time to return, she knew. To walk back to the marbled stone walls of a stalwart castle, unmoving, unwavering.

She stood coated with sand. It clung to her as if the sea was unwilling to let her go. She was both glad and saddened. There was safety at home; safety, but not much else. Her maid was already calling to her. She could hear her protests; more because she knew what she was saying rather than because she could hear her voice in the distance. The protests were always the same. Her actions were unacceptable. Her dress was ruined. Her tardiness was uncourteous. Her lack of escort, unsafe. There was no room in the maid's protests for her windswept hair, carrying the permeating scent of the ocean in it.

She was reaching the stone steps that led to the top of the cliff where the fortress stood, beaming proudly in the setting sun. Her feet were sandy and wet, and when she slipped on the second step, slick with the remains of the waves that reached it, her maid was there to steady her. The old woman grabbed her by the hand.

In that single moment, her life changed.

Before her eyes she saw her maid, lifeless. Her body was cold and pale. It was a natural passing, but the sorrow ached deep in her heart nonetheless.

Lothíriel shook her hand away in terror. She could not believe her eyes. Her maid asked her if she was distressed. She could make no reply. How was she alive when she had just seen her dead? The thoughts haunted her every breath, but not for long. On the second day of her torment her maid was found, cold and pale. Lifeless. Whatever terror Lothíriel felt before paled in comparison to the realization of the events that transpired. She knew her life would never be the same. The safety of her marbled castle did not ease the wild waves of her mind.

Lothíriel opened her eyes, yet she had not awakened from a dream. She simply dreamt of an ever-present memory.

The sky was dark above her. Stars shone palely, and a small, crescent moon showered the plains below in a dim silver light. When had she fallen asleep? Embers were all that was left of the campfire. She rose to sit as she did before the sun had set and her memory began to return. She had enjoyed the company of the riders around her, but their voices had lulled her to sleep. She must have been tired. She could not recall their conversations.

Carefully, she studied her surroundings. The moonlight did not reveal much. But it, coupled with the sound of a whetstone at work on a spear head, made her realize she was not alone. Across the dying embers sat the female rider at whom she had marveled the day before. When she stopped her rhythmic work, Lothíriel realized she had been staring. She quickly turned her gaze away. She should be more careful.

"I am Ildelith." The woman said, and offered Lothíriel a gentle smile.

"My name is Sílrien," Lothíriel tried to return the smile, but she could not ignore the sinking, burning feeling in her stomach. It was the price of her every lie. Would she grow used to it? She would hate herself if that burning ever ceased.

"So I have heard," Ildelith said, and her smile grew broad. "We know your name. What we do not know is to whom the name belongs. We have all been wondering. It has been the talk of the night." She resumed her work on her spear and continued, "Several theories have been hatched regarding the matter." She looked at Lothíriel, gauging her reaction.

Lothíriel tried to breathe naturally. She knew this would happen.

"Really? What have they been saying?" She tried to mask her nerves with nonchalance.

"Well, the younger lads swear you are an elf. Of course, they have never laid eyes on one, but we let them think so." She started, amused. "Many think you are a spy, but none seem able to name those for whom you are spying. We tell them that for a spy, you are not _subtle_." She emphasized the last word. "Others, like me, think you are highborn. But we only think so because only a lady who is used to men obeying her would ever speak to Éothain the way you did on the plains." At this, she chuckled. "Yet the wisest among us told us it was none of our business. We are far less boring than they." _Éothain._ She recalled the clear call from her vision. It was a name. And it belonged to the commander she met on the fields. _Have I foreseen his death?_

"Éothain? Who is he?" She asked, cautiously.

Ildelith pointed over to the distance behind Lothíriel with the tip of her spear. There was the man, engrossed in a conversation with a shieldmaiden.

"He is the Captain of the western éored." Lothíriel's confusion was apparent. "The Captain is the marshal's first Rider. His command is second only to the Lord Marshal's, and he is sworn to take up his banner if the marshal himself is injured, missing or dead, until Théoden King appoints a new Third Marshal to command the land and armies of the East of Rohan.

"I see." Lothíriel nodded in understanding. "Is he a good man?" She wondered out loud. He had seemed cold and distant to her on the plains, yet she now feared for him. She was certain. The one clear word in her vision was his name.

"Indeed." Ildelith answered proudly. "He is an example to us all. He rose through the ranks of the Rohirrim because of his skill with sword and spear, and not because of his heritage. He and the marshal were childhood friends, and for a time we thought they would become brothers, as Lady Éowyn, the marshal's sister, was smitten with him. Some say he returned her feelings, but it was known that his humble ancestry would never allow him to pursue her, even if he conquered every rank within his reach. Lady Éowyn is, after all, the only lady with King's blood in Rohan."

"Rohan has no queen?" Lothíriel asked, surprised.

"Not for years, no. And the King himself had only one son, Théodred Prince. As his cousin, Lady Éowyn acts as the Lady of Edoras, and of Rohan, really." Ildelith mused.

"And Lord Éothain, is he a good leader?" She asked.

"A good leader and a good warrior. He has bested Éomer Marshal in single combat, and he in turn is the only one who has been known to defeat Théodred Prince in a swordfight, whose skills are the words of legend."

Lothíriel considered Ildelith's words for some moments. Rohan must pride itself in their leaders being renowned warriors. Did they not value diplomacy and wisdom as much as Amrothians did in her father? He was foremost praised as a commander and military strategist rather than as a swordsman.

"I admit, it is strange to me to see a maiden in mail armor. I gather this is the norm in these lands?" Lothíriel hoped the shieldmaiden would not be offended by her thoughts.

"It is a deep tradition, reaching the youngest days of our people." She explained. "There are some women among the éored of Rohan, yet many who desire to become shieldmaidens do not do so."

"Why not?"

"For various reasons. First, they must train vigorously from a very young age, as any young lad does. Our skills must match theirs equally. Not every lass is encouraged to pick up a sword and shield as soon as they are able. Then, Riders do not marry shieldmaidens. They want their wives to bear them sons and daughters, and a shieldmaiden may not bear children. Fathers want their daughters to marry the King's Riders, an honorable rank, and so only second or third daughters tend to become shieldmaidens, or else those who were only expected to marry a farmer or a smith."

Lothíriel's undaunted interest in her explanation ushered her to go on. "Besides that, to be granted the rank of shieldmaiden, you must best a male Rider in single combat. Their strength, experience, and endurance usually proves to be too much for them, especially for those who began their training late in their childhoods. It is challenging, but it is also a great honor to receive the rank of shieldmaiden." She looked at Lothíriel firmly. "But enough about us. Tell me about you. Who are you, truly?"

"I am a diplomat's daughter from Gondor." Her answer was mechanical. Would Ildelith know she was insincere? "My father sent me to hide in Rohan while he negotiates peace treaties with dangerous enemies. Gondor has been under attack by corsairs and tribesmen in service of the East and the amount and frequency of these attacks have only increased as of late. They are not honorable people. I am my father's only daughter, and before he gave them a chance to take advantage of that fact, he requested the Lord Marshal to hide me until negotiations are completed."

It pained her to lie about her father. She truly was his only daughter. What would he think of her now, if he knew what she had done? How long would it be before he realized Boromir had continued his journey without her? What would he do if he learned she was missing? Would he call every banner sworn under his command to raze the land until he found her, alive or dead? Or would he think her dead and mourn her while she yet lived?

"A diplomat, huh? I guess Áwerian was right. He made you for a noblewoman. He was the most adamant among us."

"At least I am not a spy." Lothíriel tried to smile warmly.

"Aren't diplomats just courteous spies, though?" Lothíriel did not know whether she meant to be humorous, or whether those were her true thoughts. Upon seeing Lothíriel's confused expression, Ildelith began to laugh wildly and warmly; the sound made Lothíriel's tension fade from her muscles. _Will I ever understand these people?_

As they laughed, the night grew darker. Surely, the dawn was near. A cold breeze chilled Lothíriel's bones and she shivered.

"Are you cold?" Ildelith asked, amused and concerned at the same time.

"Are you not?" Lothíriel answered, colder than she had intended, while she tightened her arms around her chest.

"No, I guess not. Winters in this land are much worse than this. Even the first snow has not yet fallen."

"It grows colder than this? How do you live?" She asked to the amusement of the shieldmaiden.

Ildelith thought about it. "There is a saying in Rohan: _hit sy inna dréora_. It means something like _"it lies in our blood"_. It means that we were made to withstand and endure. I suppose that includes a bit of cold weather."

 _Hit sy inna dréora._ Lothíriel pondered at the words. There was such power in the language of the horselords. Its sound was like its meaning: strong and enduring. Lothíriel smiled. She thought of what might be in her own ancestral blood.

The sea sailed in her veins. A burning desire for freedom; to explore and experience the vast endlessness of the world. The steady wind on a silver sail, and the fiery hue of a setting sun on crystalline waters, ever rising, ever setting, everlasting. She remembered sailing under a dotted sky, each star a bright memory of her childhood. She knew them all by name. She rose her eyes to the dark sky above her. Even as far away from home as she was, she was warmed by the sight of the stars she knew, only slightly different. The sight gave her hope. She would _endure_.

Lothíriel lowered her gaze to the ground and remained deep in thought. It was then that she realized her saddlebag had been placed next to her, along with her bow and quiver full of arrows. She looked at the items quizzically. Had she forgotten their presence there, too, along with the conversations during supper?

"Éothain came while you slept. He meant to return those to you but found you asleep and decided against waking you." Lothíriel nodded slowly. She picked up the bow and traced her fingers through the intricate carvings of the elven design. The bow and quiver had been a gift from the house of the elven lord Elrond upon her departure from his domain.

"Have you any skill with it?" A voice near her asked. She knew to whom the voice belong, as it comforted her in ways she did not yet understand. Yet it also alarmed her. Its effect on her was nearly paradoxical.

"Not as much as I would like, my lord." She replied and turned her head to meet his eyes. She rose to her feet, then bowed her head. He gently took the bow from her hands and ran his fingers through it. He raised it and tested the strength of the string.

"A fine weapon." He assessed. "Have you ever faced a battle?" He asked her.

 _Why is he asking these things?_ "No, I have not." He grew concerned. He asked her to walk with him, to her own surprise. Lothíriel excused herself from Ildelith's presence and did as the Marshal bade her.

As they walked, she noticed the grounds around them. The campsite was in remarkably low ground. She knew there were open plains beyond them but they were not visible from their position. There was a thicket of trees to the west and hills to the east. On the north side a tall rock wall ran the length of her vision and only in segments did it allow passage to the plains above them. Nothing was visible on the south side. There, more hills extended, some greater than others, and any sight of the plains below was shielded from view by the earth itself.

"At dawn, a band of orcs will attack us." Éomer stated casually, to Lothíriel's growing concern. He noticed how she froze at his words, and continued, "You need not fear. We have been expecting them. My Riders are prepared." She looked around them. Horses were stabled, including her sand mare; warriors were sleeping, while others were chatting. They hardly seemed prepared.

"How are you certain of their attack?" She asked him while he resumed walking.

"They have been tracking us for three days. They know of our patrols through the farms and villages in the Eastfold, and became aware of us as we left the last outpost." He explained, "Since then, I divided my company. A group stayed behind in Stánweall, to defend it in case the orcs change course. Another I sent ahead to Aldburg for the same reason. I then brought my best swordsmen and women with me to lure them away from our farms and villages and bring an end to their excursion."

"If you know they are coming, would it not be wiser to move your company to higher ground? This area is indefensible. There is no escape through the north side, while your position would be known to anyone for miles to the south and east. Not to mention the lack of visibility through the trees on the west. From there even an amateur scout would watch us with the ability of a seasoned rogue."

He could not help but smile at her words. _She has the mind of a campaign strategist_ , he mused. _Surely she is the daughter of a commander of war._ "Yes, I know." He said simply. Infuriatingly. Then, she realized what he had done. "You... we are the bait."

"Aye." He said.

"You have made your company's position as vulnerable as possible... to lure the orcs with the idea of certain victory, which in turn will encourage them to attack."

He nodded.

"Are you so confident in your warriors that you purposefully made your position indefensible?"

"These are the best fighters in the Eastfold."

"Are you so certain you would stake their lives on it?" _There is that challenge in her voice again. It is as if it takes her a conscious effort to treat me as a lord._

"So would they. They are eager for the battle."

She frowned, at a loss for words.

He chuckled, "You think me reckless."

 _You are being reckless_ , she thought. _It is not likely to be both ambushed and victorious._ Her father would never plan a battle in this way. Neither would Elphir, her eldest brother, whose passion was as militaristic as any man of Rohan's. But she was not home, she thought. And she had entirely forgotten her place. "Forgive me, my lord. I mean no offense."

"Nor am I offended. I know it is unorthodox. But trust me, I have not gone mad." _At least not on this matter._ Yet he had trusted her, against all advice; a woman whose true name he did not know.

 _Trust him._ She did trust him. Her cousin Boromir trusted him enough to send her into his care.

"The scouts returned an hour ago." He continued, more seriously. They had reached the western edge of the campsite by now. "The pack is around eighty orcs strong. They will attack from the south side around dawn."

Lothíriel was visibly uneasy. He noticed it and stopped walking. He looked straight into her eyes when he spoke. "You need not fear." He assured her once more. "You are among great warriors. We will keep you safe." Lothíriel nodded, as it was all that she could do. "But, I do need you to stay here when the battle has begun. A group of Riders will guard the west end of the camp, making sure none of the beasts make for the shelter of the forest once they realize they have marched towards death. They have orders to ensure your safety as well. This will be the farthest point from the heat of the battle."

 _You will not give your name to those who will sacrifice everything for you_ , she remembered his words and a sinking feeling took over her insides. "Thank you." It was all she could say to him. Even after hiding herself from him, he sought to keep her safe. He was a man of his word. It was no wonder Boromir had sought him. She knew when her cousin came back, he and the marshal would become friends. In ways, they were very much alike.

He gave her one last, long look and nodded confidently, then took his leave of her. Afterwards, the night and the natural darkness that came with it lingered around her, as did the cold. She returned to the camp in search of her weapon, but found the area devoid of the sleeping figures from before. The men, Ildelith among them, were wide awake and roamed through the camp, focused on various tasks. They were readying themselves for battle.

She grabbed her elven bow and reached the western edge of the camp. There, she rested against the cold stone. She sat and held her knees close to her chest. She tried to steady her breathing and forget a battle was imminent. That she should ride through peril only to reach a war camp was not a possibility she had considered. She thought she would be warm and safe in a rustic, charming city by now.

She tried to sleep, and was able to for a while.

Then she heard the roar of a battle horn. It grumbled deeply and its sound echoed through the air like thunder. It was sounded once, long and steady, then twice more in short succession. It bore the alarm of battle.

Lothíriel tried to still the beating of her anxious heart, to no avail. The Riders' focus was bent on the approaching beasts, but she could not shake from her mind the sight of Éomer, stained with blood black as night, calling frantically the name of his friend and captain.

Two other horns answered in unison, from the center and far end of the encampment. The Rohirrim were ready for iron and blood.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thank you for reading and for the reviews you have written! I suppose this chapter has answered one reviewer's questions. To the others, you are most welcome. And to all the others who have read, followed, and favorited, I hope you like this chapter and that I have not disappointed!


	3. Chapter 3: The Glimmer of Gold

A cold breeze accompanied Éomer's determined steps, while colder thoughts invaded his mind. _Will this day end in victory?_ , he allowed himself to entertain his doubts only for a moment. Then his thoughts drifted to another. _Who is she? From what is she running? Have I endangered us by allowing her to stay?_ The questions seemed limitless. _No_ , he managed to assure himself, _I would have endangered her by sending her away. What choice was there? None._

His mind was an endless spiral of questions, details, and possibilities; he could not form a coherent line of thought. In this state he approached his tent, wider and taller than the rest, and his attention fell on the man waiting for him in front of it.

Éothain greeted his marshal respectfully and followed him inside the tent.

"Has the last scout arrived?" asked Éomer, hoping to dominate the conversation to avoid questions to which he did not have the answers.

"Aye, not long ago." replied his captain.

Éomer sat at his desk and gazed at a crude map of the land, riddled with lines and letters. Boromir's letter lay beside it. He was tempted to run it through his fingers again, to search for meanings beyond the written words, but he was vastly aware of Éothain's fixation on his demeanor.

"What does she report?" Éomer's gaze remained on the map.

"A company of orcs, over four dozen strong, advancing more rapidly than we had thought."

"Is she certain? The last report suggested a larger company." His eyes did not hide his concern as he looked up to face his captain.

"I asked the same. She swears it." Éothain paused, then ventured slowly. "How shall we proceed?"

"As planned."

It was hard not to see the concern growing on Éothain's mind. His trust on his lord was paramount, yet he could not help a feeling of uneasiness growing from within.

"Speak your mind, friend." Éomer commanded, his tone resigned.

Éothain treaded carefully. Which matter was the greater concern? "Is it wise to disregard Aethel's report? The enemy has changed their behavior."

"It is late now for a retreat. We must hold our position and see this through." There was truth to Éomer's words, and Éothain conceded so.

"And the girl? She should not be here. We cannot promise her safety." Éomer suspected discussing the matter of their guest was unavoidable.

"Still, she is under our protection."

"Who is she?"

"A diplomat's daughter." Éomer said simply, testing the strength of the lady's lies.

"A diplomat would have never sent his daughter unescorted into a foreign land."

Éomer recalled Sílrien's words, _only you need to know it is not my true self_. "Yet he did, for want of other options."

"He must have been desperate."

"Now is not the time to ponder." Éomer declared, rising from his seat. Éothain nodded, unsatisfied, and followed his leader to the reality awaiting them outside.

"Are the commanders ready?" Éomer asked him, yet his gaze did not rest on the man's face, but on the southern darkness approaching them.

"Édouard and his company guard the heart of the field. Ardith's flank stands in position at the western edge. They both await the signal." Éomer nodded.

It was time. They were approaching. He could see their numbers in the darkness before dawn. They brought torches, which lighted the madness in their faces. They had come, not to conquer them, but to destroy them. There was no diplomacy, no parley, no bargaining with their foe. _War turns us to savagery or death, if we seek to resist the evil of these beasts. They give us no other option_ , Éomer lamented. It would be a battle of survival. There would be no admittance of defeat until death. They were not there to win their lands, or steal their riches. They were not there to conquer and enslave their people. They were there simply to see the dominance of men destroyed, little by little. They would not rest until all men knew lay in ruin. But they would not win. _Not today, not later. Rohan will endure._

There was nothing left to do but meet battle and greet it like an old friend.

"Sound the alarm," the Third Marshal ordered with noble confidence.

The sound of the war horn thundered through the camp, lifting the spirits of every warrior who knew the sound. Éothain rung it once, then twice more in quick succession. In response, Édouard sounded his horn from the heart of the camp, signaling his warriors were ready. In the distance, Ardith sounded hers, marking the readiness and awareness at the rear of the camp. Together, the sound strengthened their hearts like lightning strengthens a storm.

The Rohirrim were ready.

Defiantly, Éomer drew his sword, Gúthwinë, _battle-friend_. He would lead his éored by example. He made his way into the line from which the orcs were expected to attack. He could see the fire of their torches as lights in the distance, growing ever bigger and ever brighter. He steadied his hand and emptied the thoughts of his head. His movements descended into instinct. War was second nature to him. He needed only to let the warrior's blood run through him and his foes would know fear.

He held his ground. Around him warriors were ready, but none would deal that first blow. Such was the marshal's honor. The honor to lead through actions. If their marshal was willing to face battle alone, who were they to be cowards in the jaws of death?

The first orc appeared. The beasts were small, their backs bent on a downward angle, yet they were fierce and swift. There was a hunger for blood in their eyes. Ceaseless was their thirst for battle. For whom they fought, the Rohirrim did not know. They were mindless warmongers. They worshipped chaos and destroyed for its sake. It was best not to think about that which drove them. They were less than wild animals, preying upon the weak. But the Rohirrim were no prey.

The first orc, swiftest in battle, carried both fire and iron. Upon gazing at Éomer, first and foremost among his warriors, sword at the ready, he threw his torch towards him. In one swift move, Éomer dodged it and it lighted the tent to his side until it was reduced to burnt wood and ashes. Next, the orc unsheathed two battle axes, unstained for the last time.

Éomer kept his ground. He waited for the orc to approach. Behind it he could see the whole strength of their battalion. But he must not focus on them now. His task was simply to down the first of the orcs to approach him, to send the message of his victory to the rest. There was no more time to think. In one savage move, the beast lunged with both axes, hoping to hack flesh in mere seconds. Éomer dodged the first axe, then parried the second with the strength of his sword. The orc's viciousness grew until after two more blows his head was removed from his shoulders. Seeing blood drawn by their marshal, the Rohirrim were now free to charge towards battle. They did not wait for the orcs to come to them. In their bravery, they ran to meet them halfway. In a matter of minutes what was once an air of tension and stress turned into a cloud of chaos. The battle had begun.

* * *

Fire blazed in the distance with an unrelenting fury. Lothíriel felt her fear tug at her insides and sought to still it. She gazed upon the sky and saw that not even the first of the sun's rays were yet visible. The orcs had reached them earlier than expected. What else would deviate from expectations?

Lothíriel forced her gaze out of the now nearly starless sky and focused on the warriors around her. When had they drawn their swords? She looked around, searching for glimpses of familiarity in their faces, but there was none. Lothíriel wished Ildelith were among the warriors near her. Her strength would radiate towards her fear. But there was no familiarity in her surroundings. Only the gleam of fire reflected on the clear steel of each warrior's swords.

The warriors were still, yet expectant. Their collective gaze was focused on the south side of the camp, where the battle had already begun. A voice startled her from her thoughts.

"Do not let fear consume you, lady. You are among the warriors of the earth. We will not fail." Lothíriel was grateful for the man's words. She tried to answer but her speech was at a loss. All words dissipated into thoughts.

He turned back to the others and continued, confidently, "You will witness a glorious victory! Victory for Théoden King!" The rest of the warriors cheered. It was hard to disagree with his statement. He was older than the rest, clearly a seasoned warrior. His words seemed to stir and inspire something deep in the rest of the warriors that made them ready to face death gladly. But such comfort did not reach Lothíriel. She was not a warrior, and for her, there was no glory in death, only sorrow.

She thought of asking his name but decided against it. Could she bear knowing the name of a man about to die for her, while he did not know hers?

The clash of iron against steel dragged her from her thoughts. She whispered a prayer for the battle to be over before it reached her.

* * *

The sky grew lighter above them. The enemy's torches turned dim in the increasing daylight. A vile fire had taken many of the Rohirrim's tents; black smoke now clung to the air and to the violence it witnessed below.

Like many of his warriors, the marshal's armor was green and gold no longer. The enemy's blood tainted its contours. His sword had tasted it; his boots had treaded on it. It had permeated both his body and mind.

Éomer had no time to wonder at his capacity for violence against a threat to his realm. He gazed at the southern border where the web of fire and anger had begun. How long ago was that moment? Among clashes and blows, time seemed inexistent. His body felt like the battle had raged for hours, yet in his mind mere moments had passed. The reality eluded him.

 _Sílrien_. Éomer's thoughts trailed towards the strange woman whose welfare he had entrusted to his éored. That she should witness the fury of war for the first time, alone, perhaps worse, among strangers whom she did not trust and who, in turn, distrusted her, must be terrifying. Yet he had seen in her a quiet bravery, a kind of valiancy that might just be enough.

He gazed at the remaining torches once more. There were hardly any left. What this the extent of the enemy's strength? Was rest in sight? _No_ , he thought with alarm. _It is too soon. Something is amiss._

The marshal turned around, and with a tremor looming in his mind, he gazed to the east. Solid stone. Emptiness. Nothing. He shifted his eyes to the west. The forest in its late autumn kaleidoscope stood tall, its tallest trees dancing in the early daylight. Shadows hid below, then crawled from beneath the boughs and personified into threat. The enemy had outplayed him.

"Éothain!" he called to the man carrying Aldburg's sigil etched into his ivory horn. _In my arrogance I have endangered us all._ He pushed away his thoughts with a forceful reprimand. "The forest!"

Éothain grasped his marshal's unspoken orders and, with a deft hand, rose his horn to his lips and blew a command familiar to the earthen warriors. Without hesitation, those who were close joined Éothain on a valiant charge towards the ones assaulting their brethren on two fronts.

* * *

The first rays of sunshine gave hope to Lothíriel's heart. At least the darkness would not trouble her anymore. She kept herself partly hidden near the rock wall. The warriors around her were all engaged in battle by now. She could do nothing but pray and observe. She prayed for the battle to end quickly and for the warriors to stand their ground and withstand its force.

It had only been an hour, but she had seen gruesome things. Blood was everywhere. Red and black covered all fair sights with the reminder that war was fatal. But at least the marshal's strategy had worked. Lothíriel remained a few feet away from the conflict, and there were certainly less orcs in this section of the encampment, than there must have been at its core. Lothíriel allowed herself to sigh in relief. Perhaps they would be victorious after all. Perhaps the marshal's carelessness was imagined. But then Lothíriel heard something that frightened her more than any one sound had before.

The roar of darkness. From behind them.

Lothíriel took a few steps backwards, cautious and slow, but she soon met the coldness of adamant stone on her back. She glanced at the warriors near her, their scarcity unsettling her; where they had been confidently calling their King's name before, they now stood with swords drawn and bathed in black blood, or else they did not stand at all. Some warriors were fiercely contending against one or more foes, while others were scouting for their next mark. Only she remained untouched, yet her own battle raged in her mind.

She gauged her options. Was to refrain from battle wise or cowardly? No answer would satisfy her. She dared not engage the enemy, yet she could not stand idle either.

The marshal's words invaded her thoughts. _They will sacrifice everything for me while I stand here and do nothing_ , she thought. _I am not a soldier_ , her own voice countered, _I would endanger them more if I tried being one._ The debate raged endlessly until that menacing sound escaped from the forest's shadows.

 _They are ambushing us_ , she thought frantically, and instinctually reached for her bow. As Ardith's commands flew through the battlefield, Lothíriel nocked an arrow and held it there.

Ardith was a seasoned warrior. She was intimately aware of her surroundings in the midst of battle. She was among the first to notice that the forest hid more than shadows. Upon realizing the nature of its secrecy, she raised her voice and her commands flew through the battlefield like arrows in a siege. Her warriors turned to face the devilry pouring out of the forest like a dark avalanche. Soon they were two or three bloodthirsty axes for each rohirric sword.

Lothíriel summoned all of her courage and briefly thought of her brother Erchirion proudly helping her hold a bow for the first time. She let his encouragement guide her and fired her first arrow. By now, the day was bright enough to ease her aim, and she found, to her relief, that her first arrow found its mark. Its iron peak pierced through the skin of an orc at his leg, felling him and making him vulnerable to his enemy's justice.

Confidently, Lothíriel nocked and shot twice more. Both arrows broke the air near her target and nothing else. Frantically, she shot another. _Focus!_ She berated herself as she steadied her hand.

She now gripped the bow until her knuckles grew white. She held her breath while she aimed and let a fifth arrow fly. The arrow clanged loudly against the orc's steel armor. Its force and sound caught the beast's angered attention when she had intended to end it.

The orc sped towards her with murderous intent. Lothíriel hastily considered her options. Near her, a fallen rohirric sword lay, graceful in the sunlight, a blinking star in a dark sky. She grabbed and lifted it, but to her dread, she found it was too heavy for her to swing defensively. Celerity was essential. Her foe grew nearer. Lothíriel dropped the sword and decided she would not give in to death.

With the force of fear grapping at her fingertips, she nocked one more arrow and drew her bow. The beast was close. She could hear his growls and threats as he approached her. When her arrow pierced the grey tones of his neck, she could hear the terrible choke of death.

Lothíriel did not allow herself a moment more to think. She looked at the warriors around her and saw that they were nearly overwhelmed. Her quiver still held chances for her to come to their aid. Once and again her hands drew the string of her bow, and if they shook while she did so, no one knew. All the Rohirrim saw was that foreign stranger, the mysterious, secretive one, the one over whose presence they had speculated dryly, disregarding her own safety to join them in the fray.

For each arrow she drew and released, she took profound breaths, but the battle seemed to know no end. The orcs appeared to have an iron will that kept them from death. Then she heard the thundering of a war horn and knew its sound, if not its meaning. Her heart found relief, even if she resisted believing it. She turned towards the hopeful sound and moments later Éothain emerged, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. He was joined by a company of warriors who had seen their share of the battle. All of them were a mosaic of green, red, and black, with a faint glimmer of gold shining through.

The foreign lady kept shooting her arrows until her quiver was spent. More than once she struck grey flesh. She kept her attention on her surroundings, out of a desire for her own safety. One by one she saw the orcs fall until the battle felt even again. She took a moment to breathe and hope. At the same time, her vision locked with Éothain's skilled strokes. Ildelith was right. He fought decisively, every movement sufficient. He was locked in battle against an orc taller than most. The duel ended swiftly, with Éothain's sword, _Feorhlyre_ , deep within the orc's body.

Then, glancing near the captain, Lothíriel saw him. A wounded orc, left for dead. He was stalking Éothain from behind, moving soundlessly towards his last prey. In his claws he grasped a noble sword that did not belong to the likes of him.

"Éothain!" Lothíriel called at the startled captain. "Behind you!" she warned. It took the young man a moment to locate the source of the voice, and the reasoning behind it. A moment too long.

Taking his sword from its last victim, he turned to face his attacker and swung his sword in defense. The orc was cut deeply across his chest, and black blood fell freely from his height. Yet the beast had plunged his stolen sword at the same time, and it pierced the leather and skin on the captain's side.

The orc collapsed to the ground, but so did the valiant man, who landed harshly on the ground staring at a bright sky that turned dark in his eyes. The horror of what she had witnessed was matched by Éomer's piercing cry, calling Éothain's name in denial and despair, clinging to his friend's life. Her eyes caught sight of Éomer's armor, mail and leather riddled with the black blood of his duty as a warrior.

The marshal knelt by his friends' side, and worked determinedly to bring him back, past all sense of despair. "Belīf bresnene, freówine." he spoke in his own tongue. _Stay strong, friend._

Lothíriel felt raw fear without compare. Doubtlessly, it was what she had seen and feared. But now, she could not ignore the truth. _Did I foresee his death or did my vision lead me to cause it?_

The battle diminished and dispersed around them. They had prevailed, but for both the marshal and the stranger, the cost was on the verge of being too great.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Apologies for the long wait! Thank you to all who have read this story. I hope this chapter is to your liking.


	4. Chapter 4: Daughter of a Shining Crown

The austere light of midday judged the plains of Rohan. Its white rays laid bare the violence and vengeance of the Rohirrim. Their victory lay naked among the ashes before them—bloodied, scarred, maimed. Some Riders averted their eyes, the truth of their victory too great a sight to behold; yet the fiercest of them faced all that plagued the battlefield and were made taller by it; not with pride nor pleasure, but with the becoming silence and solemnity of a warrior of Rohan. It was their duty to bear what others could not. To destroy in order to protect.

Lothíriel's bow fell from her hand onto the grass below. For the first time since the sounding of the war horns, she allowed herself to breathe deeply, yet nothing she did would still the shaking of her fingers, the disquiet in her mind, or the fear in her heart.

She hardly dared to glance at the fallen captain, or at the marshal knelt by his side. How could she be forgiven if his wound claimed him? Would the marshal keep his oath even after he learned the truth of his captain's passing?

Lothíriel felt a mailed hand grip her forearm firmly and pull her back from her feet and her thoughts. "Are you wounded, _wealh_?" Ardith asked her in a tone as sharp as the drawn, stained sword on her right hand.

"No." Lothíriel answered compliantly. The woman's tone froze her spirit, and, in her mind, confirmed her fear. The shieldmaiden loosened her grip without another word, then walked over to Éothain, kneeling across from Éomer. Lothíriel could hear them speaking in their native tongue, unintelligible, except in tone. She could hear the power in Éomer's voice as he spoke above those near him. There was no fear in his voice, only resolve, like a mountain withstanding a storm. _From where does he draw the strength to command, even now?_ , she wondered. Then she thought that, like the lands around them, he must have also been made to endure. _Hit sy inna dréora_ , Ildelith had said. A warrior's strength lay in his blood.

A man skilled in the healing arts had arrived, and he and Ardith tended to Éothain's wound where he lay. Lothíriel took her bow and empty quiver in her hands and forced herself to walk away from that place. She dared not linger. She walked away aimlessly, in search of her horse, the sun, a memory from home—anything that might bring her comfort.

* * *

Éomer walked decisively among the ruins of the encampment. Édouard, his second rider, walked beside him, matching his pace evenly. The other officers followed closely.

"How many have fallen?", he asked, glancing at his surroundings. The dead orcs lay littered like rocks on a field. He wanted to burn each one to ashes and bone, for the Rohirric blood they had spilt.

"Two, my lord. Algar and Ormund." Éomer remembered their young faces. Neither had been in his _éored_ for long. Their skills with sword and spear were enough to earn them the title of rider, yet they were not enough to save them today. Their eagerness for battle turned sour on Éomer's mind. If they had known what fate had saved for them, would they still ride with pride the way they did on the day they were chosen?

"How many wounded?" he asked.

"Gravely, my lord? At least two more: Rand and Halvar. Rand's wounds are many, and deep. Halvar still breathes, but his mind is failing."

"Halvar is our best healer." _And our best chance to save Éothain_ , he lamented.

"He is, my lord."

"Have Aethel tend to them. He has been teaching her the healing arts."

"As you command." Replied the older captain, his features grave and mirthless. He relayed the order immediately to one of his men.

"How are the horses?"

"Rested and untouched by the battle." _Good, we shall have need of them_ , he thought.

Éomer stopped and faced his captain. "Édouard, gather your _éored_. Ride swiftly to Aldburg to herald our coming. Take young Algar and Ormund with you. Their fathers will want to bury them with honor."

"At once, my lord." He replied, taking his leave of Éomer and the other Riders.

The marshal turned to Léogar, Éothain's most trusted sword. He placed a firm hand on the young lad's shoulder and held his gaze firmly. "It falls unto you now to lead the riders under your captain's command. Let them see the same valor in you as they do in him, and they will follow you loyally." The young rider did not let his gaze fall as he nodded, standing now straighter than before. "Burn the beasts where they lay," Éomer commanded, "let their corpses serve as a warning to the rest. Gather what supplies were spared from the fires and ready your company to depart."

Éomer watched as Léogar departed to obey his orders. He addressed the last officer in his company, a tall, strong-armed warrior, of an age with Édouard.

"How fares our guest?" he asked him furtively.

"A little shaken, but unharmed." Replied the old man, "I saw her last heading towards the horses." Éomer nodded, fighting against the regret that threatened to shadow his mind. _If I had pursued the orcs instead of baiting them, they would not have cornered us like sheep._

"She fought bravely" noted Áwerian, the sun's spear. The warrior's voice arrested Éomer's thoughts. "Fought?" he asked.

"Until her quiver was spent."

Áwerian could see the surprise in Éomer's eyes, and his features softened, knowingly. "Your first battle must have been glorious, my young lord. After all, your father trained you for it from the moment you could walk, and after he was slain, your uncle did the same." His light eyes looked deeply into the man he remembered as a young lad with a spear on one hand and a horse's reins on the other. "How do you think it was for a gentle lady, a stranger among strangers, who had never before seen a creature die by her hand or any other's?"

Before Éomer could reply, the man he knew from boyhood had left him and his troubled thoughts behind.

* * *

Lothíriel found her sand mare among the great horses of the Rohirrim. She was still saddled from the night before, her belongings hung from either side. She found her water skin where she had left it, and drank deeply from it, to the torment of her upturned stomach. She hardly heard Éomer's steps approaching her.

"Lord Marshal" she bowed her head politely, her long, dark braid falling over her left shoulder.

"My lady," he replied, "are you well?"

"Because of your warriors, I am unharmed," she said diplomatically, ignoring the shivers that still chilled her. "I remain indebted to you. Please, offer my gratitude to them." She averted her eyes from his presence, and caressed the light hair on her horse's mane to distract her errant thoughts. Éomer placed his hand over hers, and meant to hold it to comfort her, but she drew it back in fear of the gift that had become Éothain's curse. The risk was too great. She looked away in shame and guilt, and her eyes could not bear to meet his.

Éomer remained silent and studied her. Her braid was unkempt, and her clothes, though less than his own, were stained with mud and black blood. Had the battle terrorized her so? _Is her despair the price I must pay for my arrogance?_ He gave her space, and turned his attention towards her horse.

"She seems strong for her size," Éomer noted, and lightly caressed the horse's ears. Once he stopped, the mare moved closer to him, as if she had known him all her life. Lothíriel thought she saw a faint smile before he resumed his affections.

"She is", said Lothíriel proudly.

"We will ride for Aldburg soon, with all haste. Will she be able to hold our speed?"

"She is strong and swift," she answered, "but not one of the great steeds of Rohan. I dare not push her that far."

"Nor would I ask that of you." He said firmly. "We depart within the hour. I will leave an escort behind to keep pace with your mount." Without another word, the marshal took his leave of her, his features concealing his regrets.

* * *

The Riders of Rohan rode swiftly through the great grassy plains, alongside the rolling hills and the dimming sun. The great company had ridden for less than an hour when Halvar, son of Delgar, died of his wounds. He never woke up from the deathly dream that held him after the beast's bloodied axe broke the skin across his chest. It was then that they stopped briefly to mourn and rest. Scores of riders and the spare horses pressed on to deliver the other wounded to the chambers of healing in Aldburg as fast as they could. The Third Marshal went with them, his white horse leading them with tenacity and grace.

The silence among the escort left behind for Lothíriel was broken by the sound of a warrior's deep voice. He sang, in his native tongue, a hymn for the fallen riders, whose lives kept the peace in the realm. The hymn was grave, yet beautiful; its sounds breaking the stillness of the wind with its jagged peaks, then embracing it with an unexpected euphony. Soon, other voices joined harmoniously, forming a solemn melody carried away by the wind. Lothíriel did not need to understand the words to grasp their meaning, though she wished he could add her voice to theirs.

The rhythmic pounding of the earth by a dozen hooves, cracking and splitting it again and again, replaced every other sound when they resumed their journey. Save for that earthen thunder, the smaller company rode in silence and rested in silence, until the great snow-peaked mountains of the east of Rohan rose over the horizon bathed in a rosy, golden light.

Not long thereafter, the great city of Aldburg, oldest seat of the Kings of Rohan, adorned the landscape. The gold and iron carvings on its wooden gates glowed in the sun's dying light. The mighty gates, magnificent and stalwart, groaned as they were opened before them, while a clear silver trumpet heralded their arrival. The company rode inside and dismounted, while squires and stable boys tended to the steeds and their masters.

The city was grander than Lothíriel remembered it. On her first visit to Aldburg, she had failed to notice the intricate carvings on the walls and windowsills of buildings, and the splendor of the stone statue of Eorl the Young, the noble first King of Rohan, who ruled from his hall in this city in the early days of the horsemen.

Lothíriel dismounted and allowed herself a moment to gaze at the city standing before her, doused in the last light of day.

"My lady," she heard a voice call, its accent heavy with the ragged notes of the tongue of the horsemasters, "welcome to Aldburg."

The voice belonged to a man whose features bespoke pride and honor. His tone was firm, yet not unkind, and Lothíriel found herself greeting him with the respect she bestowed on her father's advisors and councilmen.

"I am Déorgar, steward to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, Shield of the Eastfold, and Lord of Aldburg." He stated proudly. "What is your name, fair lady?"

"Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion, my lord" she lied, naturally, to her dismay.

"I am no lord, Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion, but I thank you for your courtesy." He ordered a young, blond-haired boy to lead her horse away. "The Lord Marshal has tasked me with welcoming you to his fair city. Come, let me bring you to his hall." He offered his arm gallantly and Lothíriel took it, wishing she could tell him how thankful her father, the Amrothian Prince, would be at his kindness towards her.

"Is this the first time you look upon our noble city?" The steward inquired as he led her through the cobblestone streets leading to the marshal's hall.

Lothíriel remembered the warm summer night she had spent here with her cousin. They had arrived and left under a shield of darkness for want of secrecy and haste. They had dined on Rohirric delicacies in private chambers and slept upon soft featherbeds. When the moon was highest in the starry sky, she had donned her hooded cloak and walked into a raised courtyard, encircled with balconies and guarded by a fierce mountain wall on one side. From there, she could count the stars in the foreign sky or look upon the length and breadth of the city; but where she expected to find solitude, she found company, for the Lord of Aldburg had also sought the stillness of the night in this private space.

"Yes, it is," she lied with less efficiency. "It is a fair sight."

"As it has been since the first days of our people." Replied the proud man, who then told her tales about the great warrior-kings of Rohan, who tamed the _mēaras_ and built a kingdom of might and renown. Lothíriel found herself listening attentively, enthralled by the foreign sound of Déorgar's voice, and by the glory of the heroes in his stories.

Soon, the steward led her up the white stone steps leading into the marshal's hall. Lothíriel raised her sights to witness the archaic texture of the columns and doors in the failing light. Its mahogany and golden hues were a stark contrast to the grays and blues of her father's castle, and where her home stood slim and tall over a sea cliff, the seat of Aldburg extended athwart the base of a mountainside, like the roots of a great tree threading over mounds of earth.

Lothíriel was taken inside the great hall and escorted into a guest chamber, where a young auburn-haired maid drew her a hot bath, without speaking a word. Lothíriel wanted to thank her and ask for her name, but the girl would not speak, and it was doubtful that she knew the common tongue. Resigned, the princess of Dol Amroth, now exiled and tested in battle, stepped into the heat of the water, and allowed it to melt her fatigue away. It was now that she realized how sore her arms were, and how the ache in her muscles attested the arduous journey from the house of the elves to the home of the horselords.

Sometime later, the auburn girl returned with fragrant water in a clay basin. Without bidding, the maid undid what remained of Lothíriel's braid, and washed her hair with lavender oil and cold water. Her silence permeated while she worked, and persisted once she was dressing the foreign lady in a light gray shift and crimson woolen gown, sashed at the waist, and embroidered with golden thread at the shoulders. She styled her hair in the manner of the maids of Rohan, a cascade of midnight curls dancing at her back. After the girl departed, Lothíriel stole a glance from an ornate mirror, and needlessly feared how her noble aunt would reprimand her for wearing a style meant only for a husband's eyes.

The stillness in the room was broken by the decisive knock of a fist on a wooden door.

"My lady," said Déorgar as he opened the door. "the Lord Marshal requests your presence."

Lothíriel was learned enough to know when a request veiled a command, and so she followed the steward down candlelit halls and into the marshal's own chambers.

As they approached it, the door was opened from the inside.

"Lady Sílrien, daughter of Gaerion" Déorgar announced as he allowed her into the room. It was a dining hall with no windows, except for two long, narrow slits on one wall. An oaken dining table stretched across the room, long enough to sit fourteen, lit by a hanging chandelier and two glowing candelabra. The chairs were tall and cushioned, but there were none on the table's sides, the customary place reserved for the Lord and Lady of Dol Amroth, a seat Lothíriel had taken upon her mother's passing.

Éomer stood respectfully when Lothíriel approached the table, and offered her the seat across his own, at its center. The servants brought platters and trays full of meat, bread, and fruits, and goblets full of dark wine. Lothíriel had paid little attention to her hunger since the battle had turned her stomach, but the compelling aroma of the savory spices renewed her appetite.

Once the food was set before them, Éomer sent his servants away. He stole a few glances at his guest while he ate, noting the delicacy with which she grazed at the fruit and the honeyed bread. She raised a goblet of wine to her lips and drank deeply; the potency of its spices taking her by surprise. Éomer chuckled lightheartedly, and she smiled faintly, but their silence returned, and neither yielded a word.

The silence began to unsettle her. It made apparent her predicament. Never before had she dined alone with a man who was not her kin. Outside the doors, there were no guards sworn to protect her. There were no brothers, fierce Amrothian warriors, who would scour both land and sea to keep her safe. No father whose wrath would consume any who endangered her. She was alone in a foreign land and unaided, save for the man who sat before her, whose honor she must trust blindly and unreservedly.

She felt she must strangle the silence before it strangled her. Was this how he meant to learn the truth from her lips, armed with silence and an unrelenting patience? She thought that she would never give in, but, in the end, she could bear it no longer.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Marshal," she said regally. He drank from his own goblet, nodded, and remained silent, watching her intently, exasperatingly.

She matched his gaze and held it defiantly, studying his features openly, the way she knew he had studied hers. He was no longer wearing plate and mail armor, so no longer did the stains of battle riddle his appearance. He was dressed simply, yet elegantly, as becomes a lord of Rohan. His pale hair was held back behind his ears, and no helmet concealed his features, nor distracted from the incessant stare of his dark eyes. There was nothing in those eyes that betrayed his thoughts.

He drank again and met her gaze. How strange it was for a maiden of her features to be dressed in the style of a maid of Rohan; how stranger still that this nameless maid could be, at times, both noble and audacious; timid and bold.

Defeated, she drew her sight back to the table. "How fares your captain?" She asked softly, as if afraid for the man's life.

"He lives still." Éomer replied simply, knowing that his heart would break if he gave more thought to the fate of his oldest friend, whose battle with the orcs had not yet ended.

Lothíriel was tempted to admit what happened, yet she could not do so without also revealing the secret she was sworn to protect.

"I saw it happen," she treaded carefully, knowing that the full meaning of her words would be lost to him. "One of the beasts raised a stolen sword to his back, and I called his attention to it, costing him too long a moment." The wetness of her eyes did not go unnoticed, and that was when Éomer understood.

"Éothain is an expert fighter." He told her. "You must not judge yourself guilty of his actions." Would he think the same if he knew the rest?

"Déorgar tells me you were fascinated with the sights of our city." He offered kindly, "how does it compare to your homeland?"

Lothíriel took a moment to interpret his intent. "It is a fair city." She answered resolutely.

He casually sipped the last of his wine, though his eyes never left hers. "Not much has changed since you were here last."

She felt all heat disappear from her core, the impact of his words evident in her eyes. _How could he remember me?_ "The autumn winds have embraced it."

He smiled confidently, knowing he had cornered her.

"You are the lady who traveled with Boromir of Gondor on that late summer's night." He stated. "On that night we spoke on the outer courtyard beneath a cloudless sky, though you hid your face from me and departed quickly."

Lothíriel sighed softly and nodded in agreement.

"And on that night, Boromir confided to me that his path would take him to Rivendell, one of the last dominions of the elves. What answers did he seek there?"

"I cannot say." Lothíriel answered fiercely.

"You arrived at my encampment wielding an elven bow. A gift worthy of a queen. Why would the elves bestow you with such favor?" _Because they knew no one could help me. The gift was out of pity._

"I cannot—"

"You are under my protection. This is my realm." He raised his voice, and the warrior's tone surfaced. "Whatever I ask, you shall answer." Lothíriel had never been commanded with such authority before. She instinctively sat straighter on the wooden seat in response.

"These things I will not say: my name and the name of my father, my country, and my kin, the reason behind my exile, and the purpose of our journey past Aldburg. Anything else my lord wishes to know, he may ask, and I shall speak nothing but the truth." She stated firmly.

"You do not give commands here." He replied rigidly.

"Nor am I your subject to command." Strength emanated from her every syllable.

"You dare defy me in my own hall?" Noting his ire rising, Lothíriel opted to call upon her father's gift for diplomacy.

"No, I do not." She spoke softly, hoping her tone would ease the tension between them. "I am reticent because our safety depends on it." She fought the impulse to cover his hand with hers, and chose to hold the sleeve over his arm instead. "Please, trust in the truth of my words." After his silence, she drew back her hand dejectedly, and drank the rest of her wine.

He sighed deeply and relented. Somehow, he could not bear to dishearten her.

"Who else knows you are refuged here?" He inquired.

"Lord Elrond of Rivendell, his most trusted councilors, and the elves who escorted me as far as the Fords of Isen, though I led them to believe I meant to ride to Edoras." She answered quickly to placate him.

"If the elves received you, and favored you enough to bestow gifts upon you, why did they not shelter you as well?"

"The elves do not infringe upon the wars of men, and will not endanger their own for one of mortal blood." She answered, shaking her head softly. She watched as he left his seat from the table, and paced the length of the room, in turns obscuring and revealing the fireplace behind him. Lothíriel followed him with her eyes, in a failed attempt to learn his thoughts.

"The name you have given me, Sílrien, what does it mean?"

"It is an old name, given to a heroine in a melancholy tale written by the elves of Imladris. I came upon it in Lord Elrond's library. In Westron, it means _daughter of a shining crown_ , but, in reality, its meaning is closer to _the white princess_."

"You speak the tongue of the elves?" Éomer asked curiously, now sitting beside her, facing her closely.

"Yes, fluently." She answered, proud, yet uncertain.

"Your presence in my hall will only raise suspicion, especially among my _éored_ ," he began, as if speaking to the room instead of the dark-haired maiden who watched him closely, "yet their disquiet will grow, the greater my efforts are to conceal you." Lothíriel remained silent.

"If you are given a purpose here, in time, even they may grow used to you." He mused, while she listened attentively. "There is a young girl, daughter to my second Rider, for whom we had thought to send for a tutor so that she may learn about the world beyond our lands. Rohan does not yet value diplomacy, but our time has darkened, and only the combined strength of the free kingdoms will endure the coming storm."

Lothíriel felt her fears dissipate in the depths of her mind as she listened to the words spoken by her protector, the Third Marshal of the Mark; yet as he spoke, her mind wandered to his foreign features, while his, unbeknownst to her, ventured into a dream of lavender.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

To all of you who take the time to read, enjoy, and share this and other stories, thank you. This chapter, my longest one yet, is for you. I hope you enjoy this one as well.


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